


Only Rises

by glassessay



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fix-It, Gen, Theon is the Drowned God, everybody we like except Ned Stark "lives", more or less, sorry Ned, technically this falls under Major Character Death but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 03:49:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16339268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassessay/pseuds/glassessay
Summary: Theon Greyjoy is murdered on Pyke, thrown over a bridge by his own kin. He drowns.What is dead may never die.





	Only Rises

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently when I get stuck on long stories I write weirdly structured magical fix-its.
> 
> So like, here we are.

Theon Greyjoy is murdered on Pyke, thrown over a bridge by his own kin. He drowns.

What is dead may never die.

*

Balon Greyjoy is found dead in his chambers, bed and body soaked in sea water. He drowned in his sleep, in a locked room—the maester and everyone who knows is baffled.

With no other heirs apparent, Yara Greyjoy is crowned Queen of the Salt Throne. The day they found her father’s body, she returned to her rooms and found a hunk of rusted iron and a soggy promise. She tells no one.

*

Robb Stark receives a raven from the Iron Islands three days later. He reads it in front of his bannermen, heart in his throat.

“Balon Greyjoy is dead,” he says. “Yara Greyjoy has accepted our terms. The Iron Fleet is being readied as we speak.”

The tent is noise, and words, and then his mother calling through the crowd.

“ _Yara_ Greyjoy?”

He looks at here, blue eyes to blue eyes, voice wet.

“She’s the only Greyjoy left alive.”

*

All rivers lead to the sea, and the sea is less an unending expanse than it is inside of him, now. The Trident and its forks are not the salty, briny depths they should be, but they will be enough.

The Blackwater is bay water, at least, and on the way besides. Not that distance means much to an ocean.

*

Sansa Stark disappears from King’s Landing, seemingly into the air. Her handmaiden claims they were watching the boats in the harbor, that she turned to look at something—and when she turned back, Sansa was gone.

The Red Keep is scoured, the city searched. King Joffrey, enraged at her escape, declares her a traitor to the crown and puts out a warrant for her arrest.

Alone, Shae confesses what she really saw. “The water itself rose up to take her away.”

“A trick of the light,” says Tyrion. She shakes her head and stares at him.

“It spoke. It said it was going to save her.”

He cannot believe her, cannot even try, but her conviction unsettles him.

“Let us hope it will,” he says, and stares out at the dark water, glinting under the stars.

*

She is scared.

He knows because he knows her—or knew her, or simply knows humanity. Scared of him, scared more of her captors and for her family, scared mostly of dying. Of death.

_It is not the end_ , he wants to tell her. _It is just a difference_.

_I will not let you drown_ , he conveys instead. _I am taking you home_.

She cries, and her tears are salt water.

*

The Iron Fleet makes impossible time. The men, all hardened sailors, have never seen the like. They look at their new queen with barely-hidden awe; the Drowned God has blessed her, they say, has chosen Yara Greyjoy.

Every night, Yara throws two pieces of paper over the rails of her ship. Every morning, she wakes to one piece returned, covered in ink and salt stains.

She keeps these missives hidden on her person at all times. If any man notices, they do not dare to ask.

*

A day after her disappearance, Sansa Stark floats up the Red Fork to Riverrun.

She steps out of the river, everything but her hair soaked through, to the shock and surprise of her older brother’s men. Robb rushes to her from his tent, crushing her into an embrace—wet clothing be damned—and shakes with relief.

“You’re here,” he says wondrously, “how are you here?”

“He brought me, Robb.” She pulls back and looks at him, then turns to the water. “He saved me,” she says, and then collapses, sobbing, into their mother’s arms.

There is no one in the river, and when he asks every man nearby, none can tell him who or what his sister meant. Only that she appeared, like a miracle, and walked out of the water.

Later, when it is dark and no one knows to notice him, he goes back to the bank of the river. “Thank you,” he says, feeling foolish and small.

The next morning, there is a river rock in his tent and a puddle of water outside.

*

The last one is not by any water. He cannot find her, no matter the lakes or streams or ponds he becomes. He is always moving, always rushing, always searching.

He is everywhere water flows, and he sees everything around it: ships being sailed, cities being supplied, even red banners being cloaked in friendly colors.

He sees, and he knows, and he runs.

*

There is a raven from Yara Greyjoy, unexpected and uneasy. Robb opens it with his sister and his mother at his side.

_There are more twins in the lion’s den than expected_ , it reads. _Trust nothing but the water_.

He looks at his mother.

“If Frey could have the Riverlands, he would do anything.” Her eyes harden. “Even the worst.” He nods.

“He warned her,” Sansa says, looking at the note. “He warned her, and she warned us.”

“Who?” he asks, breathless and clutching at his sister’s hands.

“The river,” she says. “The ocean, the bay. The water.” She grasps his hands, squeezing so tightly it hurts. “He saved me, and now he’s going to save you too.”

That night, again, he makes his way to the river’s edge. He breathes, crouching, and slips a hand into the water.

“Thank you, again,” he murmurs in the dark. “I do not know who or what you are, but I will try to trust you.”

For a moment, he would swear there is another hand holding onto his own.

*

King’s Landing cannot stand, but it does. Water cannot burn, but it does.

But there are many places to hide, and he knows them all.

*

They still go to the Twins—because a crossing is needed, because there is no way to explain, because they have to. Instead of giving themselves up to the generosity of their hosts, they make camp outside the castle, and wait. Robb is a king, his sister a princess, his mother a great lady; Walder Frey can come to him.

The first night they are there, the river floods. The second night, the bridge is battered by a wave too dangerous to cross. The third night, by some godly force of nature, the water overcomes human architecture and floods the lower levels.

On the fourth day, Walder Frey comes to Robb Stark. “Do you prefer the ground to a bed, your grace? Surely your mother and sister would prefer to sleep in my castle than a camp.” He smiles, crooked.

“We though to spare you the rooms,” Robb replies. “Since you seem to be having trouble keeping them dry.”

Frey’s face twitches, a heartbeat of a scowl. “You are my king!” he spits, feigning a smile. “I will always have rooms for you and your family.”

“And can I be certain I will meet no harm?” Robb’s banners are looking at him, askance, but he only looks at Frey, and the water.

“You insult my hospitality,” Frey seethes.

“You insult my intelligence. And my life.” Robb’s hand rest loosely on the pommel of his sword. He musters all the presence that he can. “Tell me, Lord Frey, and I will spare your daughters and your grandchildren. If I accept your _hospitality_ , will I find my end at the hands of Lannisters or Freys?”

His reaction, and the correspondence found tucked away in his solar, are enough to condemn the Freys. Enough supposed allies were in on the plot that it is not a happy victory, but the flood subsides, and they can cross.

It is still treachery, but they are prepared. They do not get the men, but they do not die.

That is all Robb feels he can ask for, today.

*

Even at an impossible speed, Stannis Baratheon had reached King’s Landing first. They might have tied, had Yara not called for a stop and told her men to wait.

When they hear the way the other ships burned, they do not even wonder how she knew.

*

Arya, _Sandor_ _Clegane_ , and a boy with wide eyes and a face Robb half recognizes find them at the Twins.

Arya’s hair is cut short and their clothes are filthy, but Catelyn Stark is so relieved to have her last missing child reunited with them that she pulls her into an embrace without hesitation. Robb and Sansa are not far behind.

“How did you get here?” Robb asks his little sister. “How did you even know where we were?”

They look at each other for a long moment. Clegane shakes his head, Arya huffs.

“We followed the water,” she says. Sansa gasps.

“He found you too?”

“Eventually,” Arya shrugs.

“There’s something _in it_ ,” the boy blurts out. Clegane shoves at his shoulder.

“We know,” Robb says, glancing at his mother. “We just don’t know what.”

“Not what,” Arya shakes her head. “ _Who_.”

Robb stares at her, throat dry. No one speaks for a long moment.

“Yara Greyjoy knows,” Sansa says, her voice a whisper.

*

Water holds no shape. It crests and breaks, ebbs and flows. It’s only constant is that it is always moving, always changing, never stopping.

Water hold no shape unless it is frozen.

*

The Iron Fleet blockades King’s Landing for a month before Robb Stark’s army knocks on their doors. They send Jamie Lannister, held prisoner for a year, in with a message: surrender, and the children will be spared.

King Joffrey throws a tantrum. Tywin and Cersei Lannister refuse.

Jamie is bathed, shaved, and changed when his little brother appears in his rooms.

“Sansa Stark disappeared without anyone even knowing how,” Tyrion says.

“She’s with them,” Jamie sighs. “They say she swam all the way to Riverrun.”

“Arya Stark, a little girl, survived two years on the run.”

“With help from the Hound,” Jamie adds.

“That almost makes it more impossible.” Tyrion pours himself a drink and sits across from his brother. “The Greyjoy fleet moves faster than anyone can even believe. They should have been here when Stannis attacked and gotten caught in the wildfire, but they weren’t. Like they knew what I had planned.” He drains his glass. “The ironborn are saying their drowned god has chosen her.”

“They always say that,” Jamie murmurs.

“I’ve never believed them before.”

“At the Twins,” Jamie starts slowly. “What ever it was father had planned—they _knew_.” He swallows. “That blasted castle hasn’t flooded since it was built, and yet.”

“We’re all going to die,” Tyrion quips, resigned.

Jamie thinks of his baby brother, of the children that couldn’t be his.

“Not all of us,” he says.

*

Robb Stark has seen a number of impossible things in the past years, but none has surprised him so much as Tyrion Lannister showing up to his camp and offering a deal. When Yara comes so they can hear him out, the three of them and his mother sit in his tent.

“You will spare Tommen and Myrcella,” Tyrion says.

Robb nods. “You and your niece and younger nephew will meet no harm from us.”

“And—” Tyrion looks at these two rulers, barely his age combined, and asks another favor. “I would rather you didn’t harm Jamie.”

They exchange a look. It’s Greyjoy who responds this time. “We will not attack him first.” Tyrion nods. That’s all he can ask for.

He takes out the roll of paper in his cloak. “There is a way into the Red Keep that no one else knows. It starts on the beach – a small group of men should be able to get inside without anyone noticing.” He gestures to the map, pointing out the path.

“Make a copy,” the Greyjoy girl says. Lady Stark nods and starts to sketch. The girl—the _Queen_ now, he supposes—looks at Robb Stark with hard eyes. “It will be done,” she says, and leaves.

“What—” Tyrion starts to say after she had left. Stark turns to him, and Tyrion looks up. “Is she...?”

“I don’t believe it’s her,” Stark says, as if that is an answer.

*

Stannis Baratheon receives two letters in one hour.

The first is from his own informant. The false king, his mother, and his grandfather are dead, killed in their beds or bed chambers. The letter says they drowned a hundred feet above the coast. The crown has surrendered to Robb Stark and Yara Greyjoy.

The second letter is from them.

“They offer me the Iron Throne.”

Davos’ eyebrows raise. “That’s generous.”

“The throne of _five_ kingdoms.” Stannis scowls. “Stark would have the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale for his family, and Greyjoy her islands.”

“Well,” Davos says. “I cannot say I didn’t expect that.”

“I am the rightful King of the _Seven_ Kingdoms.” He sighs with the weight of a lifetime. “And I have no throne, no fleet, and not enough of an army.”

“Five is more than none, your grace.”

“Yes. It is.”

*

The sea was not made for stillness. He is the sea, now, so he is not made for stillness or for form. The sea has only suggestions of direction, no thought to purpose or to action. The sea does not want, it only is.

He wants. He wills.

*

“So,” Robb approaches Yara as they wait for Stannis to arrive and take this mess off their hands. “How real is your god?”

“More so than anyone thought,” she says.

Robb shifts from foot to foot. “Are you—What is it, exactly?”

“Not what.” She smirks, sharp and harsh and so like Theon that Robb’s heart skips. “Come,” she says, becoming him to follow her.

“My sisters—They’ll want to know too.”

“Then bring them,” she calls over her shoulder.

Yara leads them—Robb, his sisters, and his mother—through the city to a secluded stretch of beach he would otherwise have never noticed. She takes of her boots, rolls up her trousers, and wades into the water. Robb does the same.

“I know you’re there,” she says, not to Robb but _to the water_. “Stop hiding, little brother.”

The water _moves—_ not as a wave, but as a pillar, rising out of the bay before them. It glows, somehow, water swirling inside it and across it like a current in an ocean. It grows, until it is taller than Robb, then the pillar shifts and shapes until it is not a formless mass of water but a figure, rising from the sea.

Robb is awed.

“Who—” he starts, but he is speechless.

_Am I your brother_ , the figure sounds, _now and always?_

*

His majesty King Robb spends a lot more time by Winterfell’s hot spring pools than he did as a boy.

People are curious, at first, but the household comes to figure that it must bring him some kind of peace. They are all in need of peace, though they are once again free from southern rule, and none more so than the King and his family. It is his castle, in any case. Who are they to begrudge him this?

Robb could not care if his people think him odd.

He sits, feet in the pool, and reads from a letter. “Jon says that winter is coming, and it brings the dead to life.” He trails a hand through the water. “Only, not like you.” The water clings when he pulls his hand out.

“But they can be killed, he says, if they can be burned.” Robb grins. “And they cannot cross water.”

Something laughs.


End file.
